I've been there
by CSI-missy
Summary: Another author, accused of murder, shows up in Tashmore lake. Can Mort Rainey keep himself from falling back into his old ways? or will this new girl get to him? Ratings may rise.
1. I've been there

**Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own this! Don't ask, don't sue, don't make me say it again!**

**A/N: This is far from my first fic, but it is my first Secret Window fic. If you've ever read my work, you know I like to pick on characters, this is no different. R&R, no flames. Creative Critismgood, Flamesbad!**

She was sitting in the park, unsure of what to do. She stared down at the screen of her laptop, she'd been trying to write something for an hour now and she was pretty close to giving up. She was just about to slam the screen of the two-thousand dollar Dell down when she spotted a figure across the park. He had sandy blond hair, a thin face and wide glasses. Even from the distance she recognized him. Mort Rainey, the author from across the lake. She'd seen him a few times, but had stayed clear; mostly due to the rumours that surrounded him.

_He's a murderer_

That's what the sheriff had told her; and most the town folk had backed him up on the statement.

She didn't know any murderers, but Mort Rainey didn't look like a murderer to her. He looked kind, sad and very alone. She smiled softly, knowing the feeling. She'd been accused once, of killing her sister. She looked at her computer for a second then wrote down the first words that came to her head.

_People look at you differently when they think you've done something wrong. They don't trust you, don't want to know you and prefer that you stay as far away as possible. Yet, he never let it get to him. He still went to town when he pleased, still hung out at the park as he pleased and still wandered the town as he pleased. The only thing that hurt was the looks that people gave him as he went about his business. Nobody let him see that they were looking, but he knew. He knew that they were scared of him, certain that he would lash out. He didn't look like a killer, just a regular guy with a bad hair cut._

She looked up to get another look, but he was gone. She looked around when she heard a voice.

"Looking for someone?" he asked. She jumped, spinning around to face him.

"Oh, no, just…"

"My hair's not that bad, is it?" he asked, reading over her shoulder. She slammed down the screen.

"I wasn't…no it's not." She tried to figure out what to say to a guy like Mort Rainey, but nothing came to mind. He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled.

"You seem to know a lot about what it's like to be accused," he stated. She blushed as a couple of elderly ladies walked by the two authors, shaking their heads and casting suspicious looks at the two.

"Yeah, I do." She watched them go past and turned her attention back to Mort.

"They're always like that," he said, indicating to the two women who'd just past. "They think I'm a murder."

"So I've heard."

"But you, you're the only other person around here that seems as alone as I am."

"Yeah?"

"Why?"

"I just…I've been there, okay?" she stood up, her lap top under one arm, her purse over her other shoulder.

"You've been in my shoes?" he called after her; she stopped and turned to face him.

"You could say that." And with that, she was gone.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" he said, pacing around the room. He stopped, looking into the mirror that stood over the fireplace. "What are you looking at?" he asked himself, half expecting his reflection to answer, it had before. But it wasn't his reflection that answered, but a southern accent from the top of the stairs.

"You could definitely say that."

"No," he said, rolling his eyes. "You don't exist!" he yelled at the empty house, spinning around and facing the figure of John Shooter at the top of his stairs.

"Then why do you insist on talking to me if you know I don't exist?"

"I…I don't know." Shooter walked down the stairs and stood before Mort.

"You want me too exist. You want me to get rid of everything that hurts. Right?" Staring Shooter down, Mort finally dropped his head and faced the ground.

"Right."

"And that girl?"

"Doesn't know. Doesn't understand."

"She has to go?"

"Right." Shooter took his hat off the table where Mort had it and headed off.

* * *

**My muse is on vacation today, if it sucks, just say that I should put my effor into my CM/CSI fics and let my muse come back before I continue with this. No flamy please!**


	2. story books

**Okay, I know this is a little fast, but I like quick beginnings. Onwards! Oh, yeah. If you know it, I don't own it.**

He wasn't quite sure why she had to die, but it was weighing on his mind that it was the right thing to do. Once again, he wasn't really sure why. He'd only just met her and she seemed like a nice enough person, some one he could relate to. But he'd learned over the last year that Shooter was easier to deal with when he did as he was told. And if he didn't listen, Shooter would do it anyways. It was, in all reality, a lose-lose situation. But who was she? Why was it so important that she die? He decided he had to figure it out, before something bad happened to an otherwise good person. He was back at the park; she seemed to be there all the time. He adjusted his glasses and walked up to her. She was typing again, not paying attention to the world around her, but he was certain she knew he was there, she was just choosing to ignore him. He took a deep breath and held it for a second.

"Hi," he said, she didn't look up, just kept writing. This annoyed him slightly, and over her shoulder, he could see Shooter standing there. He shook his head and looked back down at her. "Are you planning on ignoring me until I leave? Because if you are, I'll go now and spare you the trouble." She looked up at him, and he was caught off guard. Her eyes were a rich amber colour, like melted honey, or dull gold. But it wasn't the impossible colour of her eyes; it was the slight redness from a night spent crying. He smiled at her, trying for reassuring, and failing miserably. She gave him a half hearted smile and shook her head, unplugging her ear bud head phones, which had been hidden by her long black hair.

"I wasn't ignoring you, Mr. Rainey, I simply didn't hear you. Did you want something?"

"Oh, just to say 'hi'. Can I sit down?" he indicated to the empty seat on the bench next to her. She nodded and he took the seat. She didn't try and hid what she was writing so he looked at the screen.

"How's the writing coming?" he asked. She grimaced and shook her head again.

"Not so good. I can't get through this bout of writers block. You know how that is, just can't find something good to get out?"

"Oh, I get that all the time. End up staring at the screen and thinking 'this is just bad writing'." He laughed a little and she smiled a real smile.

"At least you got something!" she said, "I've got nothing."

"Let me see, what have you written since yesterday when I saw you?"

"Nothing good, here." She passed him the lap top and he read it quickly.

_Yet that regular guy had done something, something that made people hate him. He might not let that stop him, but it still hurt to see people casting sideways glances at him. He was at home that night, alone, staring at the T.V, but not really paying attention to what was on. Should he move on, find somewhere where they didn't know him, where they didn't know what he'd done? Or should he stay here and prove that their looks didn't stop him, and pretend that it didn't hurt as much as it did?_

"I don't see what you're problem is, accept that there isn't any dialog," he said.

"Well, who would he talk to? Another person that's been there, like you and me? Or himself or his dog? Everyone says you used to have a dog." Mort cringed, thinking of Chico, his old blind dog from before.

"Yeah, Chico. He was a good dog, but he…died. Go with talking to himself," he said passing the computer back to her.

"Oh really?" she asked, surprised.

"Yeah, and have himself answer back, a real twist when yourself starts talking back."

"How would you know?" she asked. He proceeded with caution, unsure of whether she'd understand about Shooter and the stronger Mort that lived in the mirror over his fire place.

"I don't," he stated simply, deciding she wouldn't understand.

"Do you want to…you know co-write the story? You seem to know a lot, and it would do good for the story, I think," she asked. Mort was taken aback, he'd never co-written a story, he wasn't sure if it was a good idea, with Shooter wanting her dead and all. But he nodded.

"Okay, sure. You want to come to my house, or should I go to yours, or…I'm sorry, I don't even know your name," he said realizing she'd never introduced herself. She laughed at his flustered response.

"I'm Cassandra Daley, and I would love to go to your place, for some new scenery and maybe some inspiration."

"Well, Cassandra, it's nice to meet you. I'm Mort Rainey, and I will make sure to cook something for you. I have corn on the cob, if that's okay. Shall we go?" He stood up and offered his hand. She closed the computer and took his hand.

"Lead the way," she said and they walked off. As they walked towards Mort's place, Cassandra watched the looks everyone gave them, but Mort was more focused on the look Shooter was giving him from his spot by the road. Mort had learned to ignore him, but he still worried what Shooter would do when Mort gave up his mind to sleep. Cassandra touched his shoulder, stealing his attention from Shooter.

"Are you alright?" she asked when he looked at her, he nodded and looked back, but Shooter was gone.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You seem distracted. Now I only just met you, maybe you're always like this, but maybe you're not."

"Oh, no, I'm fine. Just thought I saw something, someone."

"Okay, did you?"

"No, it was just my imagination run off."

"Who did you think you saw?"

"Nobody. Never mind." She nodded as they kept walking. When they got to Mort's place he unlocked the door and opened it for her, she stepped inside and looked around. The place was bigger then her's and she couldn't help but stare at the vastness of it all.

"I'm sorry it's such a mess, I don't have a house keeper anymore."

"Actually, it's pretty clean compared to my place. I was just thinking how lonely it must be in a house this big."

"Oh, it's not that bad, and when I've got no one, I've got my books, my writing and I can always go stir up some trouble in town." He smiled and took her jacket. He pulled a pack of smokes out of his own pocket and offered her one.

"You want one?" he asked, and she nodded, taking one.

"I don't really smoke, but just one's not gonna kill me, right?" she asked.

"I like to think so. I don't really smoke either, but hey, what the hell." He lit his then lit her's with the same match. She took a deep drag and let the smoke fill her lungs before breathing the smoke into the house. She looked over to find him watching her, she laughed.

"What?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. Come on." He led her upstairs to where his own lap top took up most the desk. He unhooked the cord and moved it to the rocking chair, stopping for a moment before placing the computer on the cushion. She set her computer up on the desk and sat down in the seat. Mort paced behind her.

"A little antsy are we?" she asked.

"Oh, no, it's just been a while since I had anyone in the house. Not since…never mind."

"Hey, I've heard the rumours, I won't judge you, and you don't judge me. We'll write about a regular guy that was accused of murder, who lives alone in a big house in the country and we'll leave it at that. Alright?" she asked. He nodded.

"Alright. Let's make this regular guy a nut case who meets a girl in the park, but this girl doesn't exist. How's that?" he asked. Cassandra turned to the computer and typed what she thought it should sound like, reading it out loud as she went.

_When the days seemed to last forever, and there wasn't anyone there, he seemed to find comfort in his own mind. Yet even with all that comfort, he needed something else, he needed someone else. Someone, like her? The girl, across the park, with the blonde hair and sad brown eyes who always smiled, but was never truly happy._

"That's good," said Mort.

"Yer pushin' yer luck, Mr. Rainey." The voice was in his head, he knew it, but couldn't stop it.

"You don't exist!" his mind screamed.

"Ain't never stopped me before." Mort couldn't think. What was Shooter going to do?

"You think so?" asked Cassandra.

"You're still missing the dialog."

"Sorry. I'm gettin' to it." She laughed and he smiled, grabbing a near by chair and sitting down beside her. Two hours passed, then three, before Mort finally leaned back and slouched into the chair. Cassandra saved what they'd written and looked back, smiling.

"That was amazing!" she said.

"I quite agree, dear. Now, I think we need that food I promised…hold on a sec." He pulled himself to his feet and headed down the stairs. She took the moment to look around the house. The walls had been sanded down, the desk was new and the window at the end of the room was closed. She walked over to the window, and knelt down beside it.

"A secret window," said Mort from behind her. She turned and looked at him, his voice sounded…different.

"Like from your story?"

"Exactly like the one from my story." His voice had a southern drawl, faint as it was; she knew it hadn't been there before.

"Are you okay?" she asked, standing up and walking towards him.

"I'm fine," he said, but the voice, it worried her.

"You sound…different." She walked past him towards the stairs.

"What do you mean?"

"I guess…it's nothing," she smiled, heading down the stairs. She felt his hands on her shoulders.

"Now, just a second, miss. You wanted to say something, and I'd like to know what it is." She looked over her shoulder at him, unable to turn or move at all.

"No, it was nothing," she said. She stared into his eyes a moment, trying to read him, figure out what was wrong, but she couldn't.

"Well, I'm sorry, miss, but I just can't let you be snoopin' around here."

"What are you talking about? You invited me over."

"Now, Mr. Rainey never meant for that, he just doesn't know what he's doin' half the time. You'll have to excuse him."

"What?"

"Good bye, Miss Daley. I'm awful sorry." And with that, he pushed her. Her hand whipped out and grabbed the nearest thing, Mort's arm, and pulled him down the stairs with her, where they landed in a heap on the floor.


	3. the truth

**Disclaimer: I'm sure you get it. **

**A/N: Oh, suspense. Let's ago! **

When she woke up she was lying on the cold hardwood floor of Mort Rainey's kitchen. He was on top of her, still unconscious from the fall. She supposed she was lucky to be alive, but the memory of what had happened flooded her and she panicked. Pulling herself out from under him, she bolted out of the house and down the road to her house. Should she tell the cops, the sheriff, the New York Police? No, she decided, she'd just go home and tend to some of these injuries.

* * *

She was icing some of her bruises when she heard a knock at the door. Her heart stopped, and she stared across the room at the door. Another knock.

"Cassandra! Cassandra, I'm sorry, can we talk?" It was Mort. He wanted to talk? Wanted to try and explain what the hell had happened? No, she would not put herself in a position to be hurt, not again. Once upon a time she would've let him trample on her, let him into her life and not cared if he hurt her, but now she was strong and she would not be a victim.

"Go away!" she shouted, throwing the bag of ice at the door. It hit the wall with a dull thud.

"Look, I don't know what happened, but please, let me explain," he called. She was not in the mood to hear his lies. She'd taken that crap from her ex; she would not take it from a stranger.

"No!"

"Cassandra, you don't understand. What happened back there, it wasn't me. Please, let me explain." She ignored him, clasping her hands over her ears and trying to block out the sound of the knocks.

"Call the police!" her mind screamed at her, and she was tempted to listen to it.

"Cassandra, I'm sorry, just let me in." He sounded so pathetic, almost desperate, that she walked over to the door and leaned against it, considering letting him in.

"Mort, you tried to kill me. I can't just let you in."

"Cassandra, can you trust me? For just long enough for me to return your computer and explain myself?" His voice held no accusations, just sadness and remorse. She let her head rest on the hard wood for a moment before unlocking the door and opening it. He stood on her step, laptop under one arm, looking horrible. He had a few nasty bruises and a deep gash on his arm from the fall down the stairs. He gave her a half hearted smile, waiting for her to invite him in. She stepped aside, letting him into the house.

"Thank you for bringing my computer back," she said after a moment, breaking the silence that had set in and fight hard to seem cool and collected.

"Cassandra, I'm sorry about what happened-"he started.

"Sorry, Mort, you pushed me down the stairs!" she said, her voice loosing all traces of calmness.

"Please, listen to me. As stupid as this sounds, it wasn't me."

"I saw you, I heard you! You told me you were sorry and you pushed me."

"Did I say anything that seemed out of character?"

"I've only just met you. I don't know what 'out of character' sounds like," she snapped at him.

"Sorry, that came out wrong. Did I say anything that didn't make sense?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Did I refer to myself in third person?" She paused, thinking back on the moment before he pushed her. It was a blur, and the temporary amnesia wasn't helping, but she could've sworn…

"Yeah, you said something about, 'Mr. Rainey doesn't know what he's doing half the time'? Does that sound familiar?"

"I don't know. I wasn't actually there."

"You lost me."

"John Shooter."

"Who?"

"When I talked to you, did I have a southern accent? I don't know if it would be clear or not, but did I sound different?"

"Yes." She sounded thoroughly unconvinced.

"I have split personalities, I-"

"You could've told me that sooner!"

"I'm sorry, but-"

"No! Sorry doesn't cut it. You could've killed me!"

"I know, it was stupid of me, but-"

"Look, I've dealt with a lot of crap in my life, I don't need to add you to the mix!"

"Cassandra, please. I don't want to hurt you, but Shooter has a mind of his own and I know that what I did was stupid, but I'm really tired of being isolated from the world."

"You killed your wife!"

"I thought we weren't going to judge each other."

"Yeah, well that was before you pushed me."

"Can we please get off that."

"I'm sorry if I can't shrug off a near death experience like that! I've almost died twice in the last six months, I'm not feeling all that forgiving."

"Twice?"

"Yeah, my ex boyfriend shot me. I nearly bled out on my kitchen floor. The last thing I need right now is a mentally unstable idiot who killed his wife."

He didn't know what to say. What do you say when you find out the only person you've spoken to in months was almost killed by someone she should've been able to trust?

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Bullshit. You know what, get out of my house." He nodded slowly and headed for the door.

"Cassandra. I never meant to hurt you, I just don't know what happened."

"Get out." Her voice was quiet, and he could tell she needed a while to absorb what he'd told her. He closed the door behind him, walking across the lake to his cabin. She dropped onto the couch and cried.

* * *

A/N: Oh, and you thought she was just another accused murderer! Ah, everything will come together soon enough. Review please! 


	4. backstory

**Disclaimer: still not mine…sigh. **

**A/N: Sorry this took so long, but I was finally inspired to return. **

She looked blankly at the screen, reading and re-reading the words they'd written together. She could hardly remember writing them, but she remembered him. How close he'd been and the way he smelled, the way he smiled, the way he laughed. If she closed her eyes she could still see him in front of her; awkward smile and shy laugh. She held on to that, because the next thing she remembered was coming to at the bottom his stairs, bruised and battered.

She shuddered and slammed to top of her computer down, standing quickly and pacing once across the length of her living room before moving to the kitchen. She rummaged through the fridge and pulled out a beer.

She twisted off the cap of the brown glass bottle and took a long drink from it. She was a woman trapped by memories; by haunting nightmares that held her with their long bony fingers and dragged her back to the times when the smell of coppery blood and death filled her nose.

How had her life fallen apart so quickly? She had been raised in such a nice home; the kind of sitcoms and day time television. Where the mom stayed home and the dad worked a good solid office job. She was the middle of three children, with an older brother and a younger sister; Jacob and Melanie. Her life had been picture perfect…on the outside.

It was as if the vale of childhood had protected her from the truth about her life. The innocence of a minor had shielded her from knowing about her father's affairs, and her mother's self-destructive behaviour. It seemed as if for the children's sake they had all tried to stay sane.

Then she became an adult and nobody hid anymore. She became privy to the private horrors of her seeing her father in a bar with another man. She witnessed her mother's addiction to prescription drugs overtake her and even put her in the hospital. She saw the reality that her parent's had managed to hide from her.

Jacob just shook his head. He'd seen it from the time he was young, younger than her. He told her, when she was an adult, that he'd tried so hard to protect her and her sister from the evil in their family; because if he could give them the perfect life then they would be better off.

So Cassandra took Melanie to spend the summer with her in her new apartment in down town New York. She'd moved in with her boyfriend of three years and they were starting a life they hoped would be as beautiful on the inside as it could be seen on the outside. 

But it seemed she was destined for the terrible life of a V.C Andrews novel. The day she came home to her apartment and smelled the bitter smell of blood around her. When she'd followed the trail from the living room through the kitchen to the back bedroom where she saw her.

Melanie lay on the floor near the bed, a pool of blood around her, and her eyes open in death. She'd run to her sister's side trying desperately to wake her, refusing to believe that she'd lost someone so close to her. She'd only wanted to protect the young girl from her family.

When she'd run to get the phone, to call for help, she saw her boyfriend. Kris was over six feet tall, more than two hundred pounds and the kind of man that had always seemed to be protecting. Now, with a gun in his hand he looked like the terrifying monster that some of her friends had once claimed he'd become.

She didn't remember much, except running past him towards the kitchen phone. She heard the gun go off clearly in her mind and then it was black.

She found out later that her boyfriend had claimed self defence because he thought she'd killed her sister. But because nothing could be proven on that side and because she'd almost bled to death in hospital, she somehow managed to escape spending her life in prison.

The looks of passer-byers who hardly knew her but had heard her tale were punishment enough though. Not a day went by where she didn't see some person who recognized her because of her awful crime.

So she'd tried to start over in Tashmore Lake. And she thought she had. She thought that the kind man who could understand her story and offered to help her write a new book would be someone she could trust. Leave it to her to meet up with a crazy person.

She threw the bottle across her kitchen and it shattered on impact with the wooden wall.

"Now look what you did," said the voice in the back of her head. She sank to the floor, back against the wall, pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. She buried her face in her knees, and cried.

Mort's fist collided with the wall, which did nothing but cause him untold amounts of pain. Other than that it did nothing to relieve his stress or his frustration.

What had he done? How could he let Shooter take over like that, and hurt the one person he'd been able to get close to in months? He'd been so good lately, and he'd almost thought that Shooter might be gone, under control and out of mind. Literally. But somehow the evil southern bastard had wormed back in and caused pain once again.

"How 'bout this," he said to the empty room, "I'll write my life story all over again. About the man who loved the woman, only to find her with someone else, then becomes a recluse who sleeps too much. Then he's confronted by a figment of his imagination that kills his dog, his lawyer and his friend before finally murdering his wife and her fiancé. Followed by more months of solitude and the brilliant meeting with a beautiful girl; who he tries to kill!"

"You shouldn't talk to yourself," said his reflection from the sofa. "I might just be inclined to talk back."

"I do not need you around here too," snapped Mort at his doppelganger.

"Sure you do. After all, you can't have Shooter around here and not me."

"Why? Because you're the all knowing voice of logic and reason that directs me away from murder and sinking into my own deranged fantasies?"

"No. Because without me you can't convince yourself you're sane."

"That's rich. I need to hallucinate to convince myself I'm not going crazy."

"Look, you can listen to Shooter or you can listen to me. Listening to me has the distinct advantage of not ending up with you killing Ms. Cassandra."

"That's a plus in my books. Continue."

"So now you want to talk to me?"

"It beats talking to myself…forget the irony of that."

"Gladly. Can I suggest initiating one of your numerous ways of apologising, and perhaps proving to her you really want to know what's going on and that you don't want to kill her?"

"What good will that do? She already knows I'm mental."

"You could see a doctor."

"You're just the visualization of my stupid ideas aren't you?"

"We're brainstorming."

"I'm having a conversation with myself."

"True. Now, how about this; go tell her everything. Tell her that if someone else knows, then maybe you can get through this. If she trusts you, then she can help you. She's been hurt before, and she needs someone who understands. Tell her that, tell her you want to help her through her problems. Together you can get back on track; live your old lives."

"That's not a bad idea. It's not the best I'm sure, but it's not bad."

"Go try it out before she runs off and you loose her for good. Shooter may not like her, but he'd prefer you be a loner forever. I'm quite intent that we find someone to make the place less lonely."

"That fact that my subconscious can't decide what's best for me gives me little hope for the future of the three of us."

"Ah, you need to stop thinking of Shooter as one of us, and then maybe he'll go away."

Mort took a deep breath and looked at his reflection, who was properly back in the mirror.

"You make a good point, which is scary and ultimately disconcerting. I'm going to put your brilliance into affect, but on the condition that you stay in the mirror from now on. Okay?"

He wasn't sure, but he thought his reflection nodded. He shook his head and started out across the lake to see Cassandra.


End file.
